The room has already rearranged itself.
Buried under faint memory, illusory rhyme.
In the passing, existence lies out of time.
Withdrawn and sore from heartache,
we are in rooms without walls.
Ancient videotapes line the shelves,
black water clouds sinks in the washroom.
Lipstick smears and make-up stains
trail the table counters in a mess.
Torn dresses are pushed somewhere in a closet,
leaky ceiling spatters my notebook.
Meaning of work turns to dust,
I watch children play outside our window,
irritated at the voices.
Carving a thousand doves in wood,
humming lullaby song to myself.
Phantom in dark relief at my side,
patterned blood between veins.
Echoing the stillness,
remember sitting alone for hours,
daybreak filters our ambling minds.